I refuse to ever think about money more than is absolutely necessary. I'll pay the bills and have a little leftover for fun. That's all.
I refuse to start conversations at parties with work-related topics. Work pays the bills. That's all.
I refuse to watch "Judge So-and-So" shows and dysfunctional-people-get-laughed-at-by-the-audience type shows. I don't need a false sense of superiority over others.
I still refuse "smooth jazz"
I refuse to learn golf. That's it.
(And until I can think of some others...)
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
The Angel In The Wheelchair
First off - Yes - the title is reminiscent of a Charles Bukowski poem. Otherwise...
At the Post Office yesterday, I had to spend about 10 to 15 minutes at the window filling out paperwork. I had a package to send overseas to Australia and a there were a couple of legal hoops to jump through. I started to get annoyed at the clerk who had given me the wrong form to begin with but that was nothing compared to the self-loathing that kicked in when I started making errors myself and had to begin from scratch. TWICE. Bureaucracy is one thing but personal incompetence will eat you alive. Or at least me. I can imagine one day the coroner standing over my body, scratching his head and asking : "For cause of death, can I just put "Fatal Incompetence" ?
So there I was - trying to complete the paperwork without self-imploding when I heard the strangest music I have ever heard in my entire life. It came from a very frail and very elderly woman in a wheelchair. She was about 10 feet to my right - a thin African-American woman who appeared to be, perhaps 100 years old. No kidding. She was slumped in her wheelchair and leaning slightly to the left, like an ancient willow begging for sunlight. Her skin was veiny and creased - a map of southern history and forgotten Mississippi back roads. Country churches. Sundays. I was listening.
As her caretaker conducted her transaction at the window, the old woman's voice was rising and falling, in pursuit of a melody that only she knew. Her breath came in fragile draws and faint exhalations, gently pushing her song from verse to chorus. The lyrics didn't hold together very well because it was obvious she was deep in the shadows of Alzheimer's. Not bed-ridden yet or under doctor's orders, but unable to stay lucid or communicative, either. So she sang. Much of it was un-intelligible, although when she reached the chorus, she was dead-on. The line went : "Mama - Mama where are you now?/It's time for us to go home". It was amazing how, despite the confusion and strangeness brought on by Alzheimer's, she managed to wing it home and nest in that chorus every time.
At one point the background chatter dropped off as one by one we strained to hear the words she was singing. The clerk serving her care-attendant said sweetly, "Yes - You'll be going home soon. We're almost finished!" We listened and smiled. And then they turned toward the door.
I still hear that song "Mama - where are you now"
today
and remember my roots
on a weekday afternoon
at the post office.
At the Post Office yesterday, I had to spend about 10 to 15 minutes at the window filling out paperwork. I had a package to send overseas to Australia and a there were a couple of legal hoops to jump through. I started to get annoyed at the clerk who had given me the wrong form to begin with but that was nothing compared to the self-loathing that kicked in when I started making errors myself and had to begin from scratch. TWICE. Bureaucracy is one thing but personal incompetence will eat you alive. Or at least me. I can imagine one day the coroner standing over my body, scratching his head and asking : "For cause of death, can I just put "Fatal Incompetence" ?
So there I was - trying to complete the paperwork without self-imploding when I heard the strangest music I have ever heard in my entire life. It came from a very frail and very elderly woman in a wheelchair. She was about 10 feet to my right - a thin African-American woman who appeared to be, perhaps 100 years old. No kidding. She was slumped in her wheelchair and leaning slightly to the left, like an ancient willow begging for sunlight. Her skin was veiny and creased - a map of southern history and forgotten Mississippi back roads. Country churches. Sundays. I was listening.
As her caretaker conducted her transaction at the window, the old woman's voice was rising and falling, in pursuit of a melody that only she knew. Her breath came in fragile draws and faint exhalations, gently pushing her song from verse to chorus. The lyrics didn't hold together very well because it was obvious she was deep in the shadows of Alzheimer's. Not bed-ridden yet or under doctor's orders, but unable to stay lucid or communicative, either. So she sang. Much of it was un-intelligible, although when she reached the chorus, she was dead-on. The line went : "Mama - Mama where are you now?/It's time for us to go home". It was amazing how, despite the confusion and strangeness brought on by Alzheimer's, she managed to wing it home and nest in that chorus every time.
At one point the background chatter dropped off as one by one we strained to hear the words she was singing. The clerk serving her care-attendant said sweetly, "Yes - You'll be going home soon. We're almost finished!" We listened and smiled. And then they turned toward the door.
I still hear that song "Mama - where are you now"
today
and remember my roots
on a weekday afternoon
at the post office.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
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